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There's no point me attempting to suggest I'm an expert in Brazilian music. The track I listened to immediately before Gilles Petersen's new record was by a London band called Mermaids, who play a type of hazy shoegaze which really couldn't be a lot different t o Sonzeira - Brasil Bam Bam Bam. Mermaids were my kind of music. That's right - 'were'.

Petersen has gathered together a coterie of Brazilian musicians here from ageing Samba stalwarts to newcomers to the Brazilian scene, and by Jiminy do they bring their unique talents to this record from the very opening track. Where Nana Hides is filled with mysterious vocal chants that bring to mind a specific scene from 'Live and Let Die', immediately demonstrating my own limitations when it comes to a review like this. The track flows skilfully into Nana, featuring 70-something Samba legend Elza Sores purring over the track like a South American Eartha Kitt.

'Sambaio', 'Brasil Pandeiro' and the excellent 'Bam Bam Bam' are the closest the album seems to come to recognisable Brazilian sounds, though far better, livelier even, than anything you might expect to hear at the World Cup. It's probably impossible to make an album of Brazilian music without percussion at its heart and centre, but the various bumps, bangs and clicks from all manner of instruments neither sit in the background just providing the beat nor dominate to the detriment of the record. Nothing dominates, in fact, and one can only salute Petersen's production skills in making everything blend so well.

Only on 'Southern Freeez' do things drag a tiny bit, as Petersen's predilection for acid jazz becomes a little too pronounced despite the best efforts of singer Emanuelle Araujo. It's nothing more than a minor hiccup, followed by the excellent the 'Mystery of Man' with its unlikely instrumental twists and turns.

Final track 'City of Saints' is a down-tempo delight, ambiguous and cabalistic, the ideal way to gradually lower the listener back down into the real world. Mundanity seems so far away up to that point, and being reintroduced to a bleak London Tuesday morning has the index finger twitching uncontrollably towards the repeat button.

All right, so I've not given up on hazy shoegaze entirely. But someone who's ploughed through as much music as me over the years rarely has their mind opened in such an extraordinary fashion as the virtual lobotomy you can expect from this album. It makes you happy and contemplative, edgy and spry, and its power to delight can be expressed better in the bizarre shapes it frequently makes you throw like a fidgety solo sideways mosh. I can't remember being so pleasantly surprised by a style previously unknown to me since the first time I heard the Mighty Sparrow.

Should white men uncomfortable with appearing to make fools of themselves be able to move in ways this music makes us move? With the World Cup imminent I suppose we're about to find out. See you down Trafalgar Square next month, twitching and waving about like a mosquito-pestered baboon as Brazil hoist aloft a hard-won trophy to an astounding Sonzeira beat.

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